


Negative Space

by allcanadiangirl (andchimeras)



Category: Smallville
Genre: Angry Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Other, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-06
Updated: 2003-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-08 08:11:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchimeras/pseuds/allcanadiangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your subject ought to be the one dominating the composition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Negative Space

_The positive space is easiest to understand._

"Stay away from my son."

"I don't see why I should. He's old enough to choose his own acquaintances."

"Not ones like you."

"I haven't done anything."

"You want to."

"Pardon me?"

"I'm not a stupid man, Lex. I see the way you look at him."

"Mr. Kent, if you're going to accuse me of that, you're going to have to say the words."

 

_Negative space is the space that is not your subject._

And it swells in the dusty air, thick enough to choke, it will cut the words into _stay away from_. It will overflow this cavern of wood and kill the bronze sunlight outside and it will become everything for a few minutes.

 

_Bounding these is our third element, the frame or border._

Unexpected visit finds quarry away from the nest. Protective, possessive parent takes opportunity to assert moral authority. Predator unimpressed, somewhat amused. Game on.

 

_Sounds easy, doesn't it?_

"Stay away from Clark."

"I won't seek him out."

"That's not what I want to hear."

"Excuse me. Where Clark goes and who he sees are not my responsibilities. I'm not his father."

"No, you're not, and he's not like that, and I don't want him to be."

"Like what?"

"You're making this more difficult than it has to be, boy."

"You're assaulting my character, Mr. Kent. I'd appreciate it if you could be man enough to _use the words_."

 

_Not so._

Struggle later, quick stumble to the car, hope and then hope again that sought object does not return to see blood in the hay, semen on the ground, going to make this disappear. And if it never happened, he never agreed to it.

 

_Part of our negative space is bounded by the positive space._

Six inches of barn wall show between, the gap becomes smaller. Each word ups the ante.

 

_Another is constricted by the frame._

A section of the reptilian brain becomes inflamed. While the predator has little issue with proximity, the seams of the barn are flexing with violence. And it's familiar, and he's never been on this end of it before.

 

_Sometimes the negative space is completely bounded by the positive space._

"Man enough? I'm not the one who wants to fuck a sixteen-year-old boy."

"I'm sure you're not."

 

_What is important to note is that the negative space also defines our subject._

Maybe that was a little too much insolence, maybe this is all a consequence of innuendo.

A gloved fist and in the arc he already tastes blood, force pushes him away, swinging, his shoulders—arms follow. Equilibrium threatens to return as he is pressed against the hay. Right kidney, two shots, and a third, this is approaching felony assault, four.

One second, the pain starts to flood, two, he hears nothing behind him, three, the negative space around his vision starts to recede, so he puts his hands up to turn, four. Shoved back into the bale, straw poking nose, mouth, eyes.

The hand remains, the back of his neck, treated leather on hot skin, so familiar, he can maybe admit that he likes the way boy sounds coming from somebody else's mouth.

Blood in the hay, there it is. He tries to say something, speak sense, but sense has never meant much to the Kents. Honestly, really. It never meant much to him either.

Part of him knows the commands are not art or artifice, they're fear, not a little anger, and they're designed out of desperation in the service of teaching him a lesson.

Part of him likes it better that way.

Dust rises, a shuffling step, one two three fingers, yes. So it's not quite non-consensual. This is not going to improve anybody's opinion of him, don't care, doesn't matter, fucker has more to lose than fuckee anyway. One. In.

And it _hurts_. "Stay."

Two. "Away." Three.

"From."

Four has nothing attached. It drips to the dirt floor, he tries to say he understands, _Clark_. A breath comes out, no name. _Yes sir I promise never to talk to him again_. And nothing comes out. _I won't_. Nothing. _Do it again_.

One last blow across the back of his head. Fall on his side, feels it sticky slick through his pants leg. Roll onto his stomach, coughing up the blood he swallowed rather than spit into the hay. Got to have some dignity.

On his knees. Hitch them back up, button then zipper. Dust settled rises as the door rumbles. Day bright white waiting outside, squints against the judgment. Feet. Standing.

 

_Confused?_

Just remember that, no matter how small, your subject ought to be the one dominating the composition.

 

End.


End file.
